


i'll try for one ray of sunlight

by sxndazed



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxndazed/pseuds/sxndazed
Summary: Blue is a sad colour, right? And he's sad. He's sad, but he's also frustrated and angry.He'sdevastated.
Relationships: Chris Colfer/Darren Criss
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	i'll try for one ray of sunlight

Darren drags his fingers over the tops of the nail polish bottles.

He's got a plastic organizer stuffed in the top drawer of the bathroom vanity. He used to put them on the counter, but then he bought too many and Chris complained that they were taking up too much space. He came home to a package Chris probably bought online when he couldn't sleep, and well, they don't clutter the countertop anymore.

He thinks about picking blue again. It's what he gravitates towards, especially over the past year. Ever since Hedwig, he feels a certain fondness for blue polish, glittery or not. It doesn't hurt that he thinks about Chris' eyes when he paints his nails blue either.

It feels pretty appropriate now though. Blue is a sad colour, right? And he's sad. He's sad, but he's also frustrated and angry.

He's  _ devastated. _

This is the busiest time of his life so far with so much happening but also not enough. He spends his time dealing with press, with interviews where he does his best to be eloquent and then worries hours later if he said the right thing in the right way. He thinks about how his words might be misconstrued, so he overcompensates and tries just a little too hard to get it all across.

It still doesn't work out that well though.

He phones home more often than not, especially now. He finds comfort in his mother's voice and speaks to Chuck when he gets the chance. He's always called home with some sort of regularity, but somehow he feels like he's slacking.

He loses himself in music. His guitar is closer than his phone and his calluses are getting rougher. The piano is in tune more often than not, and there are scraps of paper around the house with scribbled out measures and half-written lyrics. Well, they're littered around the house for an hour or so before he hears a muffled "Cooper, you can't eat that!" and runs down to grab the paper and shove it in his journal.

It's supposed to be one of the best times of his life, so why doesn't it feel like it?

He knows why, of course he does. He's not naive. He can barely get through a call with his mom without crying, and he can barely get through articles of him without seeing some unnecessary mention of something he wishes he didn't need to give a thought to. He's still a public figure, and he needs to put up a face, but why can't he  _ fucking grieve, _ Goddammit.

So, his fingers linger on the blue polish. Because that's how he thinks he feels at the moment. Dark blue, nearly black, and chips into oblivion moments after it dries because he's always got to be doing something with his hands.

He doesn't even bother with a base coat or a top coat because he doesn't need it to last and he really can't concentrate on waiting for those layers to dry. He just needs to do something that'll let him lose himself in it for a few moments. And if it lets him feel more like himself, then all the better.

He's in the process of picking up the dark blue when he hears shuffling outside of the bathroom. He looks up and sees Chris walking over, his hair loose and falling over his forehead and wrapped up in a jacket stolen from his closet.

Chris walks over and wraps his arms around his waist, his chin perched over his shoulder. Darren leans back into his hold and feels his shoulders relax and the tension slowly melt out of his back. His fingers loosen around the dark blue, but they still hover.

"Painting?"

He hums an affirmative and starts dragging his fingers across the tops of the bottles again.

"Don't pick blue."

He turns his head and looks at Chris for a moment before turning back.

"Why not?"

"Because your nails are gonna chip and leave little blue flecks everywhere, and I'd rather they don't."

His tone is light and teasing as his arms tighten their hold around his waist. Chris presses a kiss to his neck before his voice drops and he whispers into his ear.

"Pick the yellow."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's a happy colour."

"I'm not exactly happy right now, Chris."

"I know," he says as his fingers rub soothing circles over his shirt. "But your eyes have some yellow in them. And if you're right, mine do too. And so did his. And maybe that'll make you a little happy to think about."

He squeezes one more time and drops a kiss on his cheek before pulling away.

"You can paint them whatever you want though. Come by the office when you decide?"

He nods and Chris walks off. His fingers hover over the blue one more time before picking up the yellow shade he picked up a couple of months ago. He rolls it around in his hands, mixing the separated polish back up, and closes the drawer.

He walks down the hall and pushes the door open to Chris' office. He hears the pattering of feet across the hardwood and waits for them to catch up and make their way into the room before walking in.

Chris is seated by the desk, so he plops down on the chair in the corner of the room that he has for the times when he wants to play in the same room as Chris. He puts the bottle on the small coffee table and untwists the cap. He loses himself to the constant strokes of the brush against his nail and to the sound of Chris typing. He's aware of the dogs moving back and forth from sitting by his feet to sitting by Chris, but he's more focused on not getting yellow all over his fingers.

He's done with two coats within a few minutes, and he's tempted to leave it at that, but he can see the whites of his nails if he looks hard enough, so he settles for a third coat. When he finishes, he lingers on the chair for a few moments, blowing his nails a little bit to make sure they're dry. He pockets the polish in his sweats so he doesn't leave another bottle just laying around ("Darren, please put them away when you're done.") and walks over to Chris.

Darren wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders and gently drops his chin on top of his hair. He closes his eyes and breathes while Chris types away.

He stands there for a few minutes before the typing stops, and he feels a hand tug at his fingers.

"It looks good."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. Your fingers are sunny."

He feels laughter bubble up in his chest and his nose scrunches up.

"Aren't you a writer? That doesn't even make sense."

"Shut up. You can't expect me to be on top of things all the time."

"No, but you still are anyway."

"Well, damn right."

He hums and Chris presses kisses across his fingers.

"Thank you," Darren murmurs.

"For what?"

"For picking yellow."

"You would have gotten there eventually."

They're not talking about colours at this point.

"Yeah, but I get there quicker with you."

He can feel Chris smile against his fingers, so he presses a kiss to the top of his head. They stand there like that for a moment more, the late afternoon sun shining on them and making his nails shine a more brilliant yellow.

He'll pick up the blue later on at some point. He'll stick with yellow for now though.


End file.
